


Out of Focus, Out of Frame

by Masu_Trout



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Post-Canon, Sacrifice Chloe Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: It feels like the sort of picture that wants to be taken, and Victoria's not just saying that because she's going stir-crazy in this stupid little room.Victoria takes a photo and—somehow—doesn't start a fight.





	Out of Focus, Out of Frame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runicmagitek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runicmagitek/gifts).



Photography class has been canceled—“for the foreseeable future,” Principal Wells had said, which means _until we can manage to spin one of our teachers being a fucking_ serial rapist _in a way that won't lose us all our donors._

Victoria's heard the same weaselly tone a thousand times, from her parents and her teachers and her so-called friends, but this time makes her more furious than most. 

Her parents have left her no fewer than ten voicemails politely (desperately) warning her not to talk to the police without a lawyer; can't have any of the scrutiny being thrown at the Prescotts turned towards them, after all. Half the school won't such as talk to her, now that the Vortex Club has gone from the coolest club in school to what Nathan and Mark—Jefferson, she reminds herself, he's not her hot teacher anymore—used to find their victims. Last Wednesday, she spent the day at the funeral of a girl who Nathan—her oldest friend, the closest thing she had to a brother—murdered. (In the girls' bathroom, she thinks, and she can't help imagining Chloe bleeding out underneath the link to that _stupid_ goddamn video that she'd been planning to write in condensation.) 

He never told her anything, never let her know he was in trouble. Never warned her that Mark Jefferson _was_ trouble. Most of her friends don't actually care about her all that much. Fair's fair, because they're whiny and fake and she doesn't actually like most of them in return. 

But Nathan was… she trusted him. Stupid.

Anyway. _Anyway_. All of this means she needs a good distraction more than ever, and yet the only thing Principal Wells will let them do during what used to be photography class is sit aimlessly for an hour. No self-study, no free period. Just their luck he'd start trying to cover his ass _after_ all the shit went down. She could be taking photos right now, or at the very least getting drunk off her ass.

The rest of them, at least, look like they're having a decent enough time: Kate's furiously doodling something in her sketchbook, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration; Alyssa's talking happily to Stella and Daniel; Hayden is fast asleep with his head on his desk. Really, the only one in the class who looks as pissed off as Victoria feels is Max, and that's no kind of comparison at all because Max hasn't once cracked a smile since the funeral.

It's hella weird, honestly, seeing little miss wallflower bloom into some sort of weird goth rose, but she can't say it doesn't make sense. Watching someone die would freak anyone the hell out. 

(Not Nathan, she thinks, he did it and then he did it _again_ \--but she pushes the thought down quick. She needs to stop letting her mind wander back to him.)

There's something a little photogenic about it, actually: Max, with her freckles and her mousy hair, wearing the kind of bleached-and-ripped outfit she wouldn't have been caught dead in a week ago (Chloe's old clothes, the rumor mill's claiming, with a few extra-crazy holdouts insisting they used to be _Rachel Amber's_ ) and staring at the rain-streaked windows with a look on her face like she's seen every little bit of life she's ever wanted to see and now she's just waiting for it to end.

On a whim—crazy, suicidal—Victoria picks up her camera. She hasn't taken a halfway decent shot in days, but it's still only the work of a few moments to frame it just right. This feels like the sort of picture that wants to be taken, and she's not just saying that because she's going stir-crazy in this stupid little room.

The camera gives a _snap_ as she presses down—stupid, stupid, this is a digital, she should have disabled that—and suddenly the tension in the room rockets so high she could practically swim through it.

Everyone's looking at her. Of course everyone's looking at her, because last week her partner in crime offed a girl and now she's snapping candids of the only eye witness. 

Her mother always told her that the number-one rule of the social climb was staying above it all; she's starting to suspect the number-one rule is actually _don't get all buddy-buddy with murderers and then start acting like a total freak_. Either way, she's broken it.

The silence holds, building and building with each passing moment. It's like waiting for the teacher to hand out a final she hasn't studied for, except both the teacher and the final the same thing and that thing is Max. Max, who right now is looking at her with an expression of—not anger, really, which is what she would have expected. More like mild surprise.

After a moment, she asks, “can I see?” 

“Huh?” Victoria asks, because apparently her social skills died alongside her hopes of being sponsored by Mark Jefferson. 

“The photo,” Max says, “you mind if I take a look?”

She's probably going to smash the camera. Victoria hands it over anyway. 

Max blinks at the screen for a long moment, staring at the image as though it's the most fascinating thing she's ever seen. Which, for the undisputed Queen of the Selfie, it very well might be. 

(Victotia knows she's being unfair. She doesn't care.)

Finally, Max looks back up. “Your framing's really good.” Her mouth twitches for a second into something that could almost be a smile. “I mean, it's a little… distant, I guess? And I think I look kind of stupid in it, but that's not your fault. It's a nice shot.”

The tension in the room doesn't so much pop as it does deflate, like a single miserable balloon three days after the party's ended. Hayden puts his head back onto his desk, Kate resumes her near-frantic scribbling, and everyone else goes back to talking as if they weren't eavesdropping only a minute ago. No resentment means no reality-TV-style bitchfest, and no fight means nothing to break up the monotony of the photography-class-that-was.

Victoria tries not to let her shock show on her face. She already knew Max was hella weird. This is just… more than she expected. “Thanks?” she offers. “I mean, the lighting isn't great here, but—”

“Nah, it looks nice.” Max shrugs. Victoria should be mad at how Max is talking; she's acting like she _knows_ photography. Like she's some sort of elite instead of being just another student, like she doesn't waste money on outdated equipment just so she can take photos of her own face.

But, honestly, fuck it. This has been the week from hell, the most stunningly nightmarish piece of her life to date. Victoria's going to take what she can get.

Max opens her mouth—to say what, Victoria doesn't know—but before she can say a thing the clock ticks over and the bell blares out the end of class. She shakes her head, instead, and starts packing her books and her camera away. 

Fine. That's okay. Victoria's just about hit her daily quotient of dealing with Max's weird hipster bullshit anyway. But even as she heads back to her own desk and starts slipping her folders back into their places, she can't help but wonder.

A whole conversation without sniping at each other. It's probably a new record. And Max managed to go through it without acting like she was feeling sorry for Victoria or trying to be careful of her _feelings_ , which is way fucking better than most anyone else she's talked to this week. 

No anger. No pity. And maybe it's just because Max has that whole too-chill-to-care-about-shit thing going for her, but… well, it's annoying as hell sometimes, but it's a little bit cool too. There's something kind of appealing about being someone who just doesn't _care_ about the stupid social ladder; it's exactly what Victoria's never managed once in her life.

She's going to regret this, she knows it. But she catches up to Max just inside the classroom door, right next to those stupid motivational posters of Jefferson's that no one's bothered to tear down yet, and says, “hey. Where are you going?”

Max turns. Her face scrunches up into something kind of defensive for a moment before smoothing over. “Um. Lunch?”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “Yeah, thanks, _duh_. I meant, where are you going for lunch?”

“…The cafeteria?” 

Ugh. Well, clearly Victoria can do _something_ for Max. “The cafeteria food here is godawful. I swear it gets worse the more they renovate. Add a fountain, swap the burgers for ground cockroach.” She pauses a moment, gathering her resolve, and then lets the question spill out in a rush: “you want to go somewhere off-campus instead?” 

For a moment, Max only blinks at her. 

_Come on,_ Victoria thinks, _don't make this weird_ , which is kind of hilariously hypocritical, but, again: fuck it. 

All she did was ask, after all. Max just has to turn her down, maybe throw out some little insult while she's at it, and things will go right back to normal between them.

“Yeah, okay,” Max says. “But no—no weird questions or anything, okay? I don't want to think about all that right now.”

Victoria knows exactly how Max feels. She smirks anyway, though, and says, “Deal. We'll talk one-hundred percent asinine bullshit, then. I'm good at that.”

Max snorts. “Yeah, I bet.” She doesn't really say it in an assholish way, though, just—commiserating. She adjusts the strap of her bag a little, then turns for the door once more. “I know a good place, if you have a car we can use.”

“Of course I have a car! Not all of us here live like we're homeless people or— _public school freshmen_ , you know.”

Max's place is probably some awful greasy diner without so much as a salad on the menu. Victoria finds she doesn't too much mind the thought of eating some triple-stacked carb-loaded breakfast right now, not when she knows she'll be with someone who's not going to judge her for it.

This whole week's been crazy. Nightmarish. Completely unmoored from reality. This isn't any different, but—it's the decent kind of crazy, for once. 

Life can be weird in good ways, sometimes. She'd almost forgotten that.


End file.
